


a touch, traumatized.

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, non-consensual undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Jon doesn’t like to be touched.Nikola Orsinov doesn't really care.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 315





	a touch, traumatized.

**Author's Note:**

> an in-depth analysis of what exactly Jon went through when he was kidnapped by the circus, and the lingering effects of said events.
> 
> spoilers for mid S3 and the end of S4.
> 
> (please read the warnings and make sure you'll be alright to read it before diving in! and with that said, I hope y'all like it <3)

Jon doesn’t like to be touched.

This is something anyone who gets to know him for all of five minutes knows straight away. Casual shoulder touches make him flinch, and accidental bumps have him jumping out of his own skin. It’s just who he is; he needs to _truly_ warm up to a person to even feel comfortable with the idea of being physically close to them, let alone allow something as intimate as _touching_.

He can, in fact, count in one hand the amount of people he would not mind if they happened to touch him _briefly_ —and even then he’d still have two whole fingers left.

And to no one’s surprise, none of these people are Nikola Orsinov.

He wakes up with a start. It’s dark and his eyes take a bit to adjust, and what he eventually sees is an unassuming, dusty grey room with peeling wallpaper and cracked floorboards. There’s a lumpy bed, a bedside table, two solid-looking wooden doors, and a boarded up window.

He looks around in a silent panic, chest heaving as he attempts to breathe through the fear that's lodged in his throat, making him dizzy and gasping for air. He gets up like a bullet and tries the handle of both doors, hoping that maybe, _maybe_ Orsinov hadn’t bothered with locking any of them and he’s able to sneak away somehow—but the first opens to a small, windowless bathroom, and the second one, unsurprisingly, doesn’t budge, no matter how hard he rattles and pushes and _bangs_ desperately against it. He then turns to the window, gripping at the boards and _pulling_ with all his might, but though they creak and groan they remain firmly in place, the effort only serving to make his arms shake and get splinters lodged on his fingers and palms. He collapses onto the floor in defeat, forehead resting against the wall and legs splayed out under him, sweaty, tired, and most of all, _terrified_.

And that’s how Nikola Orsinov eventually finds him.

He tries to fight back, of course, but it’s of no use. Nikola has brought with her two bulky wax figurines, their faces twisted and melted and their cold, waxy hands seizing him, holding him down against the grimy floor. Nikola giggles at the sight, her glassy eyes cold and threatening and her spindly fingers _grasping_ for the zipper of his hoodie, and Jon screams and curses as he tries twisting away from her touch, but for that she slaps him, _hard_ —he gets a nasty bruise from it, the hard, solid plastic unyielding over his cheekbone—before wrestling him out of his clothes like modesty isn’t even a word in her vocabulary.

And for a long time _(too long oh god get away stop touching me **stop touching me** **STOP** )_ she runs her cold hands through every square inch of his body, down his arms and legs, over his neck and face, across his chest and middle, careful not to miss a spot or to give more attention to one limb over another. And whenever he redoubles his efforts to squirm away, the gentle touches even worse than if she was beating him down into a pulp, the wax figurines tighten their hold, use their body weight to hold him down. Jon knows he’ll have even more bruises from all this, in the shape of the fingers and elbows that dig into the meat of his arms and the dip of his collarbone, but he barely even cares; not trying to get away from everything that is being done to him is absolutely _not_ an option.

Once she’s done, Nikola sees the bruises already blooming on his skin, as well as the scratches and splinters all over his palms. She presses a finger against them and _tuts_ , scolds him like a child who didn't eat the peas of his Sunday roast. “You need to take better care of yourself, Archivist!" She says in that high, tinny voice of hers that make his ears ring. "Can’t be having a bruised, _imperfect_ skin. We’ll already need to make do with all the scars you have, you know. You should _really_ be more considerate.”

The wax lackeys then throw him back onto the bed and lock the door behind them on their way out. When Jon manages to lift his head he notices, sitting on the side table, a plastic container of Tesco ready-made curry next to a large bottle of water.

Like a meagre prize for his less-than-stellar cooperation.

He covers himself with the dusty sheets, hides his face in the pillow, and cries.

\---

After a few days Nikola’s patience finally runs out, and she resolves to knocking Jon out cold if he even hints at trying to struggle.

It’s not pretty or gentle, much like Nikola herself. Jon has a persistent headache from all the blunt trauma he suffers, but pain and a sluggish disposition doesn't _really_ affect the state of his skin, so Nikola doesn't care about petty things like permanent brain damage. It’s the easiest way to get him to stop struggling, after all. Stop _fighting_.

And Jon is, in a twisted way, glad for it. If he's not awake then he can't _feel_ Nikola's plastic hands gliding all over his body, knowing him more intimately than anyone else probably ever has. He still remembers how it feels _(he will always remember_ , a part of his mind unhelpfully reminds him _)_ but at least he doesn’t have to keep reviving it over and over again, day after day after agonizing day. Getting knocked out isn’t great, of course, but it feels, to Jon, that it’s better than the alternative. The best of two evils. Waking up disoriented but alone is always a relief, and the resulting headache is almost preferable to the aftermaths of his panic attacks.

Jon’s also meant to drink two litres of water per day and eat all three meals brought to him, and if he doesn’t he’s force-fed like a dog. Nikola reproaches him about it while her faceless wax figurines try and unhinge his jaw to shove whatever ready-made garbage’s she’s brought for him down his unwilling throat, all the while lecturing him about how a _balanced diet_ and _proper hydration_ is key to having _good skin._ She _insists_ he _must_ take better care of himself so that he’s just _perfect_ for the harvesting when the time comes.

Jon learns his lesson quickly and pushes himself to eat and drink whatever he’s given, despite the constant nausea he feels. That’s easy enough to do—much better than choking and gagging as he’s force-fed—and sometimes he’s even able to flush any leftovers he can’t push down or tip any remaining water down the sink, which is a relief. But for the life of him he cannot get used to the moisturizing.

Unlike the food and water, Nikola refuses to allow him to do any of it himself, no matter how much he begs—and beg he does, cracks under pressure when the headaches become too much to bare, like sharp daggers digging into his skull, when the knowledge of what can potentially end up happening to him if they keep knocking him out just _occurs_ to him one day, when he reaches a point of exhaustion and pain and _fear_ that he cannot deal with anymore.

Nikola enjoys his suffering, though. His _fear_. What he goes through isn’t exactly the sort of fear that her particular god feeds on, but it’s fear all the same, so it’s unsurprising that she doesn’t really care for the semantics of it all. Most importantly, though, Nikola well and truly dislikes Jon, which means that his pain and misery, even if it’s not the most nutritious for The Stranger, pleases her to no end. So she gives him the reprieve of allowing him to eat and wash and drink whenever he’s by himself, but the creams and the oils and the serums? Not even the wax figurines are allowed to apply those on Jon. That’s all her.

He now flinches whenever the door opens, cowers when Nikola and the figurines approach him, but after a while he barely even struggles when she starts undressing him. She’s proposed that he do that himself, even suggested he doesn't put his clothes back on since he’ll just be taking them off again eventually, but just the thought of it, of not putting what is essentially his armour back on, _or worse_ , of getting himself ready for her daily little torture sessions, makes him want to vomit.

So Nikola shrugs and tears his clothes off of him, just as she always does, and Jon allows that now familiar sensation of a panic attack wash over him and shut his brain down for the time being.

He still feels all that’s happening to him, but it’s distant, there but muffled. Like listening to an opera under water. The sensations are muted and his brain is foggy, and there are several instances when he blacks out and only comes to when Nikola decides to bring him back to the world of the living with a particularly rough grasp or a purposefully tender touch.

She knows exactly what she’s doing and how it’s affecting Jon. She’s not, after all, doing this _just_ to prep his skin for her ritual, and she doesn’t _just_ want to kill him once he’s done being useful, oh no. She _relishes_ in the process of breaking The Eye’s precious little Archivist, and she revels in the thought she was the one who finally managed to do so.

And Jon, well. Jon endures.

He thinks, when he’s all alone and his thoughts are his own once more, of Georgie, Martin, Tim, Melanie, even Basira and Daisy. He wonders if they’re looking for him. If they’re worried. These thoughts usually ground him, make him hopeful, but every now and then they instead send a deep sensation of _grief_ that chills and numbs him down to his core until he’s completely overwhelmed with it all.

His hand sometimes curls when he’s lying in bed, and he imagines his fingers are grasping a warm cup of tea; he focuses on how it would feel, remembers the warmth that bleeds through the ceramic and transfers to his hand, the smoke that billows from inside.

Remembers Martin’s shy smile whenever Jon’s fingers would brush up against his.

It’s unsurprising, really, when Jon realizes he’s lost count of the days.

The boarded up window blocks the sunlight, and although he tries keeping up with how long it’s been by counting the meals and water bottles they bring him, his head is too dizzy and his mind too distressed to make up from down, left from right, yesterday from tomorrow. Numbers are just too much to handle, and for a long time all he can focus on is the pain and the horror of his new daily routine.

So it both shocks and frightens him when Nikola suddenly changes gears one day and orders her lackeys to drag him out of his room. They walk in silence for several minutes, Jon tripping over his own feet to try and keep up with their hurried pace, walking down stairs and through narrow corridors until they finally reach a room with dozens and dozens of mannequins lining the walls. He’s dropped onto a chair, and Nikola admires him as he’s tied to it; Breekon and Hope are also there, watching on ominously, the rain outside making their coffin sing wildly.

He tries asking questions—he can’t help it, really—and Nikola _answers_ , much to her chagrin. That earns him another slap to the face along with a makeshift gag that’s wrapped tight over his lips and the back of his head, and once he’s well and truly strapped with no hope of escaping she pulls something big and boxy from a bag that’s hanging from her shoulder.

A tape recorder.

“I wonder if this _works?_ ” She asks, giddily, and presses the record button.

\---

Scotland is as beautiful as ever.

The circumstances which brought them here may have not been the most ideal, but Jon is glad all the same. The cottage they’ve settled in is small, simple; a bit dusty but homey all the same. Cosy. There’s a fireplace, an old gas oven, a big couch, a clawed bathtub with a shower attachment, and of course, one room with just the one bed, which. They’ve managed to make work quite nicely, if either of them have anything to say about it. To Jon it all feels like a dream, too good to possibly be true, especially when they sit in their front garden and look up at the cottage’s brick walls, watching the sun rise behind the vast green fields that frame the very place they've both been getting used to calling _home_. It’s _unreal_.

And then… and then there’s Martin.

Whenever he smiles at him, Jon feels like the luckiest man alive. Whenever their hands brush when they’re cooking, he feels shivers running down his spine—the good kind, even, which is highly unusual for him. And whenever they sit down at the end of the day to just enjoy each other’s company, Jon leans against Martin and rests his head against his shoulder, the two of them settling down with books in their laps and tea mugs in hand. Jon surprises himself with how easily he gravitates towards Martin's warmth, how he barely even hesitates, but mostly, how the whole thing feels as easy as breathing. How they slot together like Martin's side is shaped exactly to fit Jon's body. He's not a religious man, but he prays every day that they never have to go back to their old lives, and that they can stay like this, _together_ , for as long as possible.

About a week in, Jon walks into their bedroom after showering to find Martin sitting in bed in just his underwear, rubbing some sort of cream over his arms and legs. It’s pink and smells like pears and strawberries, and the sight makes Jon go all soft. Martin looks up when Jon walks in and gives him that smile that makes something in Jon’s chest stir. He sits next to him, drying his still damp hair with a towel.

“That smells nice,” Jon comments casually. Martin hums, pleased, distracted.

“Yeah, I like the fruity scents, they’re my favourite! Here,” he says, and before Jon can make sense of what’s happening, Martin pumps a dollop of moisturizer onto his palm then reaches over and gently pulls Jon’s arm towards him.

And unlike every other time Martin’s touched him, the cold feeling of the moisturizer and the curl of Martin’s fingers over his forearm feels like getting electrocuted. Jon jumps back, wrenching his arm away and effectively falling off the bed in the process, and he scrambles backwards on the floor, eyes wide and desperate as he struggles to breathe. When he blinks again he’s back in that dark, musty, tiny room, the air damp and cold, and Nikola is looking down at him with her unseeing eyes, the crudely painted smile plastered on her face looking even sharper and creepier than usual. _If you don’t struggle it’ll be so much easier for both of us_ , she sing-songs, sounding incredibly pleased with herself, head tilted to one side like a curious cat. _Your skin will look **wonderful** in no time, Archivist. I bet you’ll even thank me for it. It’ll look just **lovely** after I peel it off of you and put it on one of my puppets instead. I’ll probably be even able to fool your little friends into thinking they’re **you!** Won’t that be **fun?!**_

He closes his eyes and curls up into a ball, arms over his head and forehead pressed against the floor. His whole body trembles violently, his limbs heavy and his body tired from just the phantom memory of being held down, of struggling against his captors, hoping against hope that he’ll be able to tune it all out like he did before, as just the thought of relieving every minute of Nikola’s ministrations will most likely be just this side of too much for his already battered mind.

However, instead of rough hands, there’s a soft blanket being draped over him, covering his naked back and shielding him from the world. It’s enough to snap him out of his panic for a brief second, and when he peeks out from his cocoon he sees a colourful rug laid out over a lovely oak wooden flooring instead of old and dirty floorboards. His mind struggles to make sense of what he’s seeing versus what he expected to see instead, and when he looks closer he notes a pair of legs knelt very close to him, covered in thousands of freckles and very fine ginger hair.

He’s still struggling to breathe, chest heaving painfully, but slowly things start coming back to him. The windows are open wide to let the sun in, the curtains are fluttering in the wind, the birds outside are singing cheerfully. He notices a towel thrown to the floor just a few feet away from him, the very same he was using just moments ago to dry his hair, fresh out of the shower, and somewhere above him he hears a voice.

Martin’s voice.

“I’m right here, Jon,” he’s whispering, “I’m right here with you, there’s no one else here. It’s just you and me. We’re in Scotland, remember? Daisy’s cottage. The safe house. You’re _safe_ here.”

“M-Martin,” Jon mutters shyly, arms slowly unfurling and hand reaching out, and Martin breathes out in relief, catching Jon’s hand in both of his and squeezing reassuringly.

“Oh Jon, thank god, I was so _worried_ ,” Martin says, voice cracking and wavering. Now that the fog in Jon’s mind is slowly fading away he manages to keep moving forward, slowly, until he’s sitting up and over Martin’s thighs. He hides his face against Martin’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the soft meat of his broad back, breathing in deeply to try and calm his still frayed nerves, and though Martin hesitates he eventually wraps his arms around Jon’s torso, careful to keep the blanket in place. They stay like this, glued against one another like they’re each other’s lifeline—which, Jon thinks for a second, they might as well be—for a very long time, until they’ve both calmed down enough to think straight.

“I’m so sorry,” Martin whispers, his voice small and shy. He sounds like he’s on the verge of tears and Jon _hates_ it. “I shouldn’t have, I forgot, I didn’t think, I should’ve just _asked_... I’m so, _so_ sorry, Jon...”

Jon takes a deep breath and exhales shakily. Tightens his hold.

“It’s alright,” Jon reassures him. “Not your fault. You’re not the one who kidnapped and tortured me.”

They pull back slowly, moving to touch foreheads, and Jon grips Martin’s forearms like a lifeline.

“Still. I’m truly sorry. You... _god_ , I still can’t believe we had no idea back then. That _I_ had no idea. I... wish I could’ve helped you. I wish...”

“Martin.” Jon pulls back, holds Martin’s face in his hands. “Don’t. You’re helping _now_ , and that’s what matters.”

Martin’s bottom lip trembles, his eyes water, and he leans down to kiss Jon, softly. Jon presses back, the knot in his chest untangling slowly, inch by inch, until it finally dissolves like candyfloss in water.

They both get back up, using each other as support, and proceed to lie together in bed, limbs tangled and foreheads touching, talking about anything and everything for hours on end. And it’s only later, when they’re having dinner, that Jon notices they haven’t stopped touching yet, feet bumping casually against one another under the table.

Jon’s _never_ enjoyed people touching him, not really. He flinches and jumps and recoils, and for his entire life it’s been an all-around unpleasant experience. But for some reason, when _Martin_ touches him, something warm and gentle blooms inside him, so unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

He kicks Martin’s shin gently, Martin giggles, and Jon finds that he really doesn’t mind the touching anymore, not really. Not if it’s Martin, and especially not if he continues caring for him like he always does. Like they both do.


End file.
